


The Gentleman and the Lady

by phalangewrites



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Asgard, Celebrations, Class Differences, Dancing, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Master/Servant, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Purple Prose, Recovered Memories, Romantic Fluff, Servants, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-10 11:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14736548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangewrites/pseuds/phalangewrites
Summary: A harpist who plays for King Odin and his many royal occasions, Reader is also a servant within the ranks of the House of Odin. At many a ball, she seems to catch the eye of a gentleman.





	1. The Harpist

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested _AAAAAAGES_ ago by a sweetheart on Wattpad, and because of uni, I've not been able to post and I hope they forgive me. 
> 
> Anyways! Enjoy the fic!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playing music for the elite of Asgard had worked out fine, until tonight, when you encounter the prince himself.

The best days were those when the halls of the Allfather’s palace were gleaming with the light of day, the glow of the golden spoils of war. It was these days, like today, when the rooms were full of chattering courtiers from all the nine realms, and beyond. Oh, those days were the most beautiful, you could see so many new faces, and never once feel the caress of boredom whilst peoplewatching. There would be neighbouring dukes and duchesses, lords and their ladies, retired bounty hunters and guests of honour, monarchs of all sorts, and merchants, too. The clothes they wore! The languages their tongues spoke in! Their laughter –

It was a reminder that it was more than anything you could ever dream of becoming.

Raised in the palace from the fellow waitstaff, you try to forget the days you lived before coming to the House of Odin to serve. Homeless, parentless, penniless, you had been abandoned by your own people, with your only possession being the clothes you wore, and the ability to sing. It was mere luck that the Allfather himself had ridden through the settlement on his return from the Bifrost, as a day more, you would be dead. But no, King Odin had taken pity on you, and plucking you from poverty, you were given to the working class within his ranks, and in return for shelter, you worked your skills in his halls.

At first, it was you, a wee child, singing. But there were always other singers, more profound, more loved. It was quite rascally that you had done this, in hindsight, but, one night when you were small, you had snuck into Queen Frigga’s own hall of vestiges, and lay eyes on it. Later, you would find out its name was a harp. It was a Midgardian tool, a tool of music. But when Queen Frigga herself found you, staring at the instrument, she gave you one of her golden smiles, and in quiet words, gave you permission to play. Oh, it played fantastic sounds, and it was a pleasure to be a harpist, the harpist for the royal family themselves.

But it brings you to now. You sit in the corner of the festive celebration. Wearing your cheesecloth tunic and playing an instrument for the wealth and opportune present, it was quite humbling. You would never reach the heights of these people.

The occasion for tonight’s festivities were unclear, yet, the celebrators celebrated on as if the stars in the sky had never been brighter, as if the liquor in their goblets had never been stronger. Mirth was strong, tonight, and over the chatter and laughter from the guests in the halls of Odin, your harp’s tune was hardly heard.

Yet, you persevered.

“Your playing is beautiful, tonight, __________.” Your friend Asta commented with a small smile. “If your fingers grow weary, might I suggest for Unn and Ylva to become tonight’s entertainment?

Asta was a fellow servant, and, when she had been accepted into the ranks, you had become fast friends. She had come for work, when she had come; she had become a woman full grown, and in fear of the future and funds for her family. It was the only secure work she could find in Asgard, unless she wished to become a missionary within the religious ranks.

You ignore Asta. “We both know Unn and Ylva both have no talent, Asta. They would descend into a crude ballad the moment they had the attention of these people.”

She chuckled. “I suppose you’re right, __________.”

As you strum another note, you retort, “Well, I’m always right, Asta, unless I’m wrong.”

But when the song ends, and you flex your aching hands, Petyr appears with his lyre, and both you and Asta retreat from the festivities, and through the entrance for servants, find your way into the kitchens, and find a seat away from the hubbub.

“__________,” she frowns, seeing you wringing your fingers, “How long have you been playing, tonight?”

You pause to think, and in a small voice, you reply, “Midmorning, Asta –,”

She gasps, outraged. “That’s hours, __________! __________, please, I know you are the only one in the palace who can play that heavenly music, but do not allow yourself to be clouded by the responsibilities!”

You sigh. “I’m fine, Asta. Cramps are normal, for musicians.” You place your hands in your lap, and add, in a teasing tone, “you would know, if you had continued you training as a child.”

Asta huffs. “Are you sure you’re not working yourself to death?”

You nod. “I’m fine, I promise. Don’t forget, playing music is my labour for my place here, in the House of Odin.”

It’s then the Matron of the East Wing calls your names and claiming you both to be slacking of your duties, has you laden with trays of food, and sends you into the melee of the ball once more. You’re soon separated from Asta in the main hall. Navigating around the fancy garb and the wildly gesticulating arms of courtiers and their guests, you offer Asgardian delicacies to these people.

But when one man with golden skin throws their arm passionately as they make a point, you’re knocked to the ground, and the tray of food too. Yet, when you crack an eye open, you see you are not upon the floor, but floating merely inches from it.

A gloved hand helps you to your feet, and when you finally look up the arm, you can’t help but gasp. Standing there, in his green and gold garb, is Prince Loki himself. His eyes, the colour of overripe flesh of honeydew, they stare into yours, and soon, your cheeks turn dark with the flush of embarrassment.

Taking your hand from his, you swoop into a low, customary curtsey.

You’re usually good with the royal family; when you were taken in by Odin, you were silent. When you had met Frigga, you had been modest. Once, when you ran into Prince Thor (years ago, when he had been playing with his friends) you had been polite. But you had never had the occasion to speak with Prince Loki, never in any feast when you had played the harp in the corner, never met in the hallways, never met his gaze before.

But now, you’re before him, and come to think of it, it was most likely his seidr which had halted your fall to floor of the ballroom.

“Thank you, Prince Loki,” you keep your gaze low.

He waves off your appreciations, and with another flick of his wrist, the fallen plate soars from its place upside-down on the floor, and the trodden-on food dances from its place underfoot. You watch, silently astonished. You had seen magic before, you weren’t a simpleton, but never this close, and never, never by the prince himself.

“It would do to be careful,” he warns you, passing you the retrieved plate of ruined food. “These halls are enigmatic in emotion tonight.”

“Yes, your highness,” you accept the plate, “Thank you, your highness.” You nod, and sparing a hasty smile and curtsey, excuse yourself to the kitchens once more. It’s then you realise you said your highness twice, and when the Matron sees your ruined plate of food, she gives you an exasperated sigh, and a stern talking-to about the need to be careful in the festivities. But you hadn’t heard a word, because all the time, you were thinking of the prince you had just met.

“– and you best have a good reason why you have the gall to return here, with spoiled food,” the Matron scolds. “Well, young maid?”

You blink. “The prince told me to be careful,” you near-whisper, still in a state of almost-shock. You’d never truly exchanged words with the royal family before, and it was taking its toll on your nerves.

“The crown prince?” she asks, impatient.

You shake your head. “Prince Loki, ma’am.”

The Matron drops the matter without a further word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will come slow (because it's crunch time at uni) but never fear, I usually write on the train on the way to classes. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	2. The Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With King Odin's ball in full swing, your playing is interrupted by a masked gentleman who wishes to steal you away for a dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this now as procrastination for my three essays, one presentation and a drawing due within the month. Hope y'all enjoy the chapter!

Even as the world changes in its seasons, the royalty of Asgard did not let up their habits of celebration. It was in these transition months that were so many other festivities; The Solstice Ball, The Feast of The Common Folk, and, the birthdays of the family themselves.

First, came Queen Frigga’s dance, where all her gifts were to be sent to the impoverished within the nine realms. Prince Thor’s birthday celebration followed, on the cusp of the colder months. Then, came King Odin’s, a masquerade ball (apparently an upper-class Midgardian tradition, according to what Ylva had heard).

You played the harp in all these festivities, as always, wearing a mask fashioned of [plaster, and feathers](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/D5_Qj3TG2NQde8cS_p9Jpox3c4f3jQM1mUx9tGBX-BHPlrArix-k4xodxjJKxLH6kkwaVd80IkMOmY7wUWHRG-VFIQTmxIRKjlDQbrgaaBWjO8wdKo3bvuT9DGuQsN0RETBcUw=w300-h281-nc) gathered from the kitchen, after plucking. Though you were not a part of the upper-class of society, everyone had a mask on, and everyone who you thought you knew blended in with one another.

So, so many years ago, and one day, you had been rescued from poverty by King Odin himself. In hindsight, you now knew that he had been returning to his palace for his birthday celebrations. You kept this fact close to your heart, and silently, you revel this day as much as you can. It doesn’t feel like you’re the age you are, at all. You’re quite young, in comparison to the other people you work with; Asta is thirty-nine, now. Matron is nigh her four hundredth year. You heard a rumour that tonight’s celebration for the Allfather marks his two thousandth birthday, but you’re not sure.

Tonight, you are seated upon a more prominent area of the great hall, near the throne itself. For the occasion, Queen Frigga had all the servants in the palace issued new clothes, and whilst you should be joyous you’re wearing [pale golden cloth](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/gaYHPWyxcNWTpM1VpXO6OvW1Qk517NodwmowzJo4ibQEltrncQkQ8rBk4EYwNpyMCssxwX8n3o12d_W4d1nSmxLNpgbWM9QS5UNEVk8hd_x2RQVDsgnEJQeRmv3HcnCdzqQIF2erKBTUP8pjiTQlH7sb0-mOiLJd=w312-h471-nc), you’re afraid you’re going to ruin it.

As you play, you look out in the crowd of guests for tonight’s occasion. Everyone’s clothes are either the dark colour of mead, or a dark hue, alike a gilded item. They are the King’s colours, and while they are fine colours, and call for fineries, you prefer other colours. Darker ones. Ones which can be worn, and the dirt of the world unseen upon them.

Your fingers drift between the notes you play, and with a glance once more to those around you, you blink. There, in the middle of the sea of maroon and gold, is a man wearing dark clothes. He stands out, his clothes simple, and yet, fashionable in their simplicity. You avert your eyes to complete the song, your attention to the detail frugal. When your fingers pluck the last note, you see the man has come nearer, near enough to notice details of his appearance.

He wears a shoulder-cape the colour of the darkest green, embroidered with a delicate brocade of briars of thorns and roses. Under a [mask of black](https://i2.cdscdn.com/pdt2/5/9/3/1/700x700/auc2009982841593/rw/masque-de-venise-colombine-barocco-grifone-bronze.jpg), you can see his eyes, the colour of the flesh of a melon you can’t quite put a name to.

“May I interrupt?” he asks, words polite.

He speaks so eloquently, and you’re unsure who he is beneath the mask. Perhaps you’ve met. Perhaps he’s a part of the servant class, wearing stolen clothes. Perhaps he’s foreign and you will never see him again after tonight.

You blink. “I’m sorry, but it is my duty to play for King Odin.” You use your words to try to avoid offending this handsome gentleman, but, he insists.

The gentleman shakes his head. “A dance will harm nobody.”

He turns to the wall, and excusing himself, he goes to where Ylva stands with Asta. In seconds, they approach you, and Asta gives you a discreet smile beneath her mask. Soon, your harp is moved to a safe area, and your friends take over the entertainment for the night.

Once Ylva is singing a traditional song – and quite well, to your surprise – the man offers a hand to you, and a small smile beneath his mask. Around you, the atmosphere of the ball has shifted, and the courtiers and guests of King Odin begin to alternate their slower movements for the song’s faster pace.

“Might I have this dance?” he asks you, bowing his head.

You can’t refuse, not now.

“You may,” you reply.

Taking his hand in yours, it’s then, you frown. Following him through the steps of the dance, you can’t help but wonder if you had ever taken his hand before. He seems to notice your puzzlement, or the silence that lingers around your lips, and he questions, “I do not wish to intrude on your privacy, but, are you feeling well?”

You nod uneasily, only then meeting his eyes. Oh, they look so pretty, when you are this close to him; they look like the stars above had sprinkled a handful of cerulean and aquamarine jewels into his sockets and, then blew life into them.

“I can’t help but feel...” you pause, feeling silly at even thinking of it. But the bravery returns to your veins, and you add, “I can’t help but feel I know you.”

He misses a step in the dance, and together, you stumble into the one after. But he shakes his head, regains composure, and leads once more. “Nobody truly knows me.” he replies.

“Not even your family?” you say without thinking. “Your friends?”

He smiles, and it’s that smile which reassures you that your words were not unwanted clutter form your lips. “My family does not try, these days.” He says quietly, and he says, “and what friends I did have, have left me over time.”

“Doesn’t the loneliness hurt?” you whisper, words soft against your lips, barely heard.

But, your gentleman hears it, as if every word you would ever utter, even the ones lost to crowds or silently implored nights, would forever be heard by him. From under the mask, you can see the contemplation, but, instead of an honest answer, he turns it upon itself, and asks you.

“Does yours?” he counters, and adds, “I have seen you play, often for hours on end.”

“Oh,” you blink, feeling heat rise to your face. If he’d seen you play more than once, he would know that you’re nothing, you’re a simple errand girl, a musician for the ears of the elite. “You’ve been to many a celebration of within the House of Odin, good sir?”

He nods, leading you into the beginning of the new song Ylva, a slower song. “I have been to many of his celebrations,” he agrees. “But, I’m not fond of them, I’m afraid.”

Your gasp comes unbidden, and you hastily go to correct your shock, “I could have been fooled, you look quite comfortable in the crowd, tonight.” You say, and add, “and, if you did not come to these events, you wouldn’t wear such decorated finery.”

He chuckles at your words. “I would still wear ‘such decorated finery’,” he claims, using your words, “I prefer events to be quieter. Fewer faces, a softer atmosphere…more personal.”

“To each their own,” you reply.

The song ends, and, in the pause between the crooning of Ylva’s folk songs, your mysterious dance partner separates his hands from your grasp, and glances to the doors adjacent to the ballroom, the balcony. When Asta had the flu one month, you had to take over her duties, and it was on that balcony where you were to scrub the cobbled-stone floor from Hugin and Munin’s droppings.

“Would my lady care to step outside, for a breath of fresh air?” he asks.

You raise a brow, but since it isn’t visible beneath your mask of feathers, you elaborate, “I am neither a Lady, nor yours,” your wit takes your tongue; when had you ever felt this comfortable speaking to another soul, in your life? “but, with an offer this good from a gentleman, I would be a fool to refuse.”

Your hand attached to his, your gentleman navigates through the ballroom’s inhabitants, and, making it to the entrance of the balcony, you shiver. The warmth of the ballroom was kept by the many number of people inside, and the fires in the forges lit to warm the pipes of the palace. But outside, there is no heating, and your limbs are chilled at once.

“Here, allow me,” your gentleman unclasps his cloak, and in a swift movement, places it upon your shoulders. “Is that warmer?”

You thank him and approach the edge of the balcony. The view of the surrounding villages and settlements of Asgardians are lit by their torches, by the celebratory bonfires for the nation’s holiday celebrating the Allfather’s life and his deeds. It’s quieter outside, like all the noise and chatter of King Odin’s celebration are forbidden to leave his halls.

It’s nice.

“I’m going to be in so much trouble for neglecting my duties,” you whisper, more to yourself than your gentleman, who has joined you at the bannister, “The Matron of the East Wing will scold me, as well as her superior, I suspect.”

But your gentleman shakes his head, refusing to believe it. “I should have a word with them first, then,” he retorts. “Everyone deserves a dance, at least twice in their life.”

You can’t help but question, “Twice? We’ve only danced once.”

He gathers your hands, and to the rhythm of his own song, perhaps in his mind, or, in his soul, sweeps you into another dance. “Then, we shall remedy it. It’s best to be away from the crowds in situations like these. I find dances in quiet places are less enigmatic in emotion.”

 _Enigmatic in emotion_. There’s something in those words that makes you question, and still following his lead, you whisper, “…I really do feel like I’ve met you before, sir.” You say, trying to remember who it is. “there’s something about you that makes me wonder who you are.”

He gives you a little smile. “If you guessed, would that ease your mind?”

“I rarely have time to meet people, or go anywhere, but I will play along with your little game,” you chuckle, and contemplating, you say, “…the clothes you wear are too fancy for you to be Unn, and he is short – besides, his eyes are brown.”

He nods, agreeing, “I am not a man named Unn.”

You go to remember another man, but, as true to your words, you cannot think of one for the life of you. “…I’m truly sorry, but I don’t know. I mean, I only know two men, the other being Ignatius, from the kitchens. But he has skin darker than you. And, he is away to visit his sick mother tonight.”

“I am not a man named Ignatius.” He agrees.

Your gentleman closes the distance between you, placing his forehead against yours. You cannot think of a time in your life when you were this close to another person; being a servant did not allow for relationships, especially since your family passed away from plague. Your heart beats faster, your thoughts quicken, and yet, when you go to separate yourself from the embrace, your limbs cannot move, even if it was decreed by divine intervention.

When he goes to straighten the detail on his mask catches against your mask, and without warning, the both are stuck. It is in the struggle to unlatch your face from your gentleman’s your mask’s ribbon becomes untied, and his unfastens from its place behind his ears, and they both fall to the cobbled-stone ground, breaking on impact.

“__________, I – please –,”

At the sound of his voice, you look to his face. But it’s then you’re frozen with horror. The man, the gentleman you have spent the night dancing with, talking with, is no foreign merchant or lord. He is none other than Prince Loki.

And you, a lowly servant, have spent the night acting as if his equal.

Shakily, your fingers work to unfasten his cape from your shoulders, but your finger catches on the latch, and your newest callous breaks, spreading a drop of your blood upon the iron.

“__________, don’t go –,” he says, and every time your name comes from his lips, it’s like agony. The Prince of Asgard can’t know your name. You’re so tiny, compared to his place in the world. It’s impossible.

But you ignore his plea and run headfirst into the crowded ballroom. Weaving between the guests, you try to get away, to run back to your station, to where you will always be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! Cliffhanger, I know! Next part should be up in a week or so.


	3. The Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You run, but, running never worked for anyone...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this earlier than expected! Thank you, procrastination!

It is a historical fact known about Asgard, that when King Odin returned from battle against King Laufey of Jötunheim, he and his wife, the gracious Queen Frigga, found a beautiful baby boy, with skin the colour of ice, and hair as dark as night. The tale the people told said they took this baby in as their own, raising him alongside their firstborn and heir, Prince Thor, and loved him dearly. This baby grew to be Prince Loki, and in honour of Odin’s deed, his birthday was celebrated upon the day after his own.

But when your few possessions are crammed into your travelling bag, your thickest cloak strung over your shoulders, you take the servants’ walkways through the underground of the palace, stealthy under the cover of night.

As you lay a hand on the servant’s entrance – or, for you, your exit – you try to think of your mother. But you can’t. It had been so long since you had a minute to spare to picture her face, to remember her voice, and when you try to summon her memory, there is nothing. No advice from a deceased woman who had perished before her time.

You swallow, and before anything else can stop you, you open the door, and exit. The world around the palace is swallowed in a wintertime world of snow, and you trudge through it, your boots soon growing cold. Soon you make it out of the grounds of the palace, and then, finding the mountains in the horizon line, you go toward them.

You on, and when it felt like it had been hours, you wouldn’t dare allow yourself to think of it, and so, you kept on walking. You knew no weariness, or, at least you tried to tell yourself this. All you knew was than the shame of your actions from the night before. This shame fuelled you to push on.

To leave what you had made for yourself there.

Even though your teeth were chattering, and your arms near-frozen, you cast your mind to other places. You remember the cold you felt the day your parents passed away, when your unborn sibling died along with them. You remember the months you spent scavenging in the town, a pest to society.  You remember using your deft fingers for bad, stealing to survive, the lowest of all beggars.

You can’t truly say that you remember being saved by King Odin. That day, the town’s ruffians had ambushed you, and as a small child, your will did little against their muscles, their numbers, their weapons. When Odin rode past, he must have pitied you. Barely conscious, you were lain upon the street, battered, and beaten, starving, and stranded, and it was the pity of the King which saved your life.

You remember seeing him as he dismounted his stead and passed you to Matron. His one eye looked sad, but, thinking of it now, you were sure he saw something more in it.

 _Hope_.

You wipe a tear from your eye that you hadn’t remember shedding, and trudge on. But as you do so, your foot catches on something which lays hidden under the snow, and earthbound you fall.

But you don’t fall.

There’s a pressure on your arm, holding you up. Shocked, you turn to see who it is, and your heart falls where you nearly fell, and shatters upon impact. It’s none other than Prince Loki, atop a horse the colour of the midnight sky. He wears a heavy cloak lined with fur, and a look upon his face which you can’t quite read. In seconds, he dismounts his horse, and, with a fist full of the reins, he is beside you, helping you to your feet.

You’re too full of coldness and shock to respond, and seeing this, he sheds his large cloak, and places it around your shoulders. It’s only then when you truly see what is happening, and words stammer forth, haltered only by your surprise.

“How did you find me?” you ask. “I thought –,”

Prince Loki looks down, to his feet. “At the ball, you bled on my cloak.” He says, with a slight tone of shame in his voice. _Ah_ , you think, _magic_. “I – I’ve seen you so many times, playing so beautifully, and after you fled last night, I bear the thought of a night without hearing your music, without seeing you.” He confesses. “__________, I’ve tried for so many months – _years!_ – to keep to what I’ve been told, to stick to my rank. But,” he exhales, looking at you with those green-blue honeydew eyes, “to _Hel_ with it.”

“My prince!” you gasp. “Are you saying –,”

He nods. “I’m no crowd prince, I’m not even their biological son.” He says. “If I, of all people in that family cannot marry for the feelings I have, then what is it all for?”

Your throat grows thick, and dry. It’s true. You’ve seen him many times in many balls, many royal family dinners as you strummed music from the strings of your harp. Every time when you would look upon his pale face, his soft lips, dark hair, you’d turn your gaze before he could see you staring, before anyone could find a hint that you found the prince to be handsome.

“But, my Prince –,”

“Loki,” he whispers. His voice is ever so soft, and, ever so unlike what rumours heard about him spread throughout the Allfather’s halls, his domain. “My name is Loki.”

You nod silently. Then, unbidden, it falls from your lips, “ _Loki_ ,” you breathe. “Is what you’re saying true? Not a jest of cruelty, nor a lie?” you ask, unsure.

He shakes his head. “I speak the truth, __________, and nothing else. I knew it was you at my father’s ball by the shine of your hair, the grace of your movement, and I meant every word I spoke. Nobody in my family knows my true self, as they do not care to know, and yes, the loneliness hurts, but not since many an occasion when I caught your gaze upon me.”

If there were warm blood circulating in your system, you would blush. But since you are nigh frozen to the earth, there is none, and instead, you sway in the wintry breeze, abashed.

“Loki,” you say, quietly, “I feel the same for you.” You pause, and then, add hastily, “But I am an orphan with no coin or title to my name. If you were to – if I were –,”

He nods. “I understand what you are saying, my dear __________. But none of those things matter to me.”

“My beauty will fade in time,” you say quickly.

“I love your soul,” he interjects, and realising his admission, colour appears to his cheeks despite being amid a frozen meadow. “I do mean my words, __________, I love you. All of you, for all of who you are.”

Sneezing, the chill traces its way down your spine. “I love you also, my prince. More so, if perhaps I were warmer, and less foolish to run from the castle during this weather.”

Soon, you are assisted upon his stead, and together, with his cloak back around his shoulders, and the fabric stretched to cocoon the both of you, and his skin touching yours, you are galloping toward the Allfather’s and Allmother’s palace. Upon his black horse, the world appears less cold, less bitter, and, with his hot breath against your neck, nicer. In no time at all, you were returned to the palace, and, by instruction of Loki, to take a warm bath while he talked to his father.

You did not question the bath, and only when he had departed, did you truly hear what he said after the instruction. _I need to have a word with my father, the King,_ you remember his voice speaking, oh; if voices were miles of material, his was silk. Alone in the bath adjacent to his bedchambers, you are left to your thoughts, to your ruminations. There are salts in the water, and inhaling their heavenly scent, you gasp.

In your mind, you remember her. The woman with your face, the woman with your voice. _Your mother_.

_“__ __________, do not cry, do not cry. Please, my darling,” she was crying, the tears pooling near her mouth, falling to her neck. There were spots and scratches upon her skin, seeping ugly fluids. She looked poorly, yet, her eyes, they looked earnestly into yours with such love. “I need you to be strong, for me,” she says, voice crackling._

_You looked beside her, where your father laid unbreathing. “Mama –,”_

_“Mourn the dead later, my darling,” she whispers, more tears falling. “Look upon my face, my __ __________,_ _could you do that for me?”_

_You nodded. “I’m scared, Mama.”_

_She shook her head. “Be scared, my __ __________, but, be strong.” She closed her eyes, and then, a burst of cold air escaped her fingers. They touched your breastbone and instilled you with a magic. Her magic was always cold, and sometimes made mistakes. But oh, was her magic lovely._

_“What did you do, Mama?” you asked, afraid._

_“You will survive,” she whispered, with a small smile. But then she collapsed, falling to the floor of the family home._

_You blink, and, all the sadness you had for your family is erased. When you look to the floor, there is nobody there, and when you look to your skin, all sickness is healed._

Heart racing, you wade through the bathwaters of his large tub to where the towels hang. Your mind runs, too; too many thoughts at once, and your breathing – what had your mother thought, using her last of her strength to allow you to live? Her magic had never been taught properly and had always had an unintended effect.

Your health cost your memory of your family. _That’s_ why you could never recall them.

Loki enters when you are coddled in towels, staring at the cooling bath water. He stands by the doorway silently, watching you. When you notice he is there, you clear your throat, trying to shake out the sensation of your memories exhumed.

“What was the bath salts?” you ask, after a while.

Loki goes to the bottle which sits by the edge. “Lavender, sage and carnelian,” he replies, deciphering the text you were never taught to read, “For soothing, cleaning and healing properties.”

You thank him, and then, you ask, “Did you speak with your father?”

He nods. “He is an old-fashioned man, but my mother’s words swayed him.” He says, and seeing you are still in towels, suggests fetching clothes. You go to protest, he reminds you. “My mother is happy for us both,” he says, “as is my brother. All he is sad about is not being able to hear you play anymore.”

“I’ll still play my instrument,” you chuckle, but, your mirth stops short. You had forgotten, today was Prince Loki’s birthday! “I was supposed to play for your event tonight,” you say, aghast, “oh –,”

He shakes his head. “I did say I prefer my events to be quieter,” he says.

You nod. “More personal,” you remember. “I will play for you, if you wish?”

Loki laughs. “You can play for yourself, for anyone you want at all,” he says, “you are not a servant of my father any more, __________ – you’re a free woman.”

You nod. “So, am I free to kiss you, Loki?” you ask boldly.

He grins, nearing you. “You are always free to kiss me, my __________.”

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/M4M3P4NJ)?
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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